THE VERY EVENING before this fine day, I met with some colleagues to discuss a topic which I am currently not at liberty to share as it is a matter of the utmost secrecy, and moreover unimportant to the aim of this periodical. The weather being unusually mild, we three adjourned on the patio of a café on the opposite side of town from my estate. Three pints of ale were tasted to their bottoms and replenished, a process which at length converted a meeting of austerity to one of inebriety. It was a fine night for intemperance as I have little on my calendar to-day. However, by virtue of those who daily depend on it, this publication has become a task of high-priority from which I cannot allow one night of merrymaking to divert my focus. It is a monster which I have created to which I must continually supply sustenance – a Good monster that is.
Returning to the evening, there was an encounter which stands out between the clouds in my mind. It was with an old acquaintance named Mr. Jack Lawrence. A couple of years had passed since I had been in his presence in which time he had made quite a name for himself as the bass player for an ensemble named The Raconteurs. In association with his band-mate Mr. Jack White, he has since enjoyed considerable fame and success. What immediately struck me about him was that in spite of his successes, he still exhibited an authentic humility. He made note that he had been receiving my event invitations and was very gracious about the fact. I imagined him standing in some green-room in Italy, tuning his bass to perform for thousands of eager fans and receiving my transmission that stated ‘Come on out to the Family Wash tonight’. But, I am reminded of Emerson who said “There is no great and no small to the soul that maketh all”. Mr. Lawrence himself did not make the distinction, being very humble and personable. It was a pure example of a person managing himself well in the face of great accomplishment. I was immensely impressed and inspired!
As the night wore on, I allowed my deluded state to wear off. We adjourned at a reasonable hour and my valet Ulysses transported me safely back to the Good Estate. It was a much-needed night of good cheer and I gladly report that only mild and temporary brain damage was inflicted. I return to the tasks-at-hand with optimism and enthusiasm!
In cheerful sobriety,
Mr. J. Hazelwood
LAST NIGHT I ventured out from the Estate to attend a private gathering to which I had received an invitation. Although I do enjoy my solitude, I can not deny that I am a social creature. The encroaching elements of these long winter months have forced me in-of-doors, stifling my senses as I can only gaze upon nature through a pane. My garden seems a lifetime away from this position in my study. The rain and sleet has beaten it down into the soil where although I know the spirit of corn, tomatoes, and beans are still lurking; they are taking refuge like my-self. It is this very self which I have found increasingly in want of human contact so I accepted the gracious invitation and made the short trip to a nearby estate to see a performance by Mrs. Abigail Washburn.
It turned out to be the very night of relating for which I was in need. There were many pleasantly familiar faces, some of which I had not gazed upon since before the solstice. I also made the introduction of many new personages including a few enchanting young ladies, which was especially delightful! Among these introductions was the lovely Mrs. Washburn herself. If you are not familiar, Abigail is an astute songwriter and banjo player of the old-time tradition, known for her musical pilgrimages to China and her collaborations with (and marriage to) famed banjo virtuoso Bela’ Fleck. She was a most pleasant and engaging creature, with what seemed like an inexhaustible abundance of life-energy! She possessed a singular charisma, which when she began to perform, equated to a complete command of the audience’s attention. She shared the stage with an acquaintance of mine named Mr. Kai Welch as they have recently been collaborating. The show was engaging – playful and energetic but with a mischievous undertone. I am no music critic so I will not attempt to elaborate, but will only say that I was thoroughly entertained and impressed.
Following another round of socializing, I said my good-bye’s, bundled up and stepped out into a drizzly night where my valet Ulysses had the car in wait. I was filled with a new warmth which I carried with me through the gates to the Old Manse. I slept soundly with the celestial sound of a banjo plucking a Washington Phillips song in repetition…
”What are they doing in Heaven today”?…. ♫
Mr. H.
I flew into Las Vegas in the morning. I do not fly often, not because I’m fearful of the practice but simply because I have no occasion to do so. It is a curious thing, humans caravanning around the globe at forty-thousand feet. I imagine that the predecessors of this technology would be awestruck at this view of the top of the clouds and so am I, every time. Furthermore, I made it from Nashville to Las Vegas in four hours. It is amazing what we sometimes take for granted!
Collecting my senses and my carry-on luggage I stepped off the plane and into a strange realm where none of my rules seem to apply. Suddenly, the silence that I often enjoy became a commodity to be won or lost. I watched money fly around like leaves from the trees, the wind shifting unpredictably and without bias. Sex was solicited on the street alongside buffet coupons. An avid walker, I strolled from casino to casino for the length of a day, observing.
At length, I entered the famed Caesars Palace, at which point I was becoming immune to the architectural grandeur and the clanging and ringing of slot machines. I began to notice people and their supposed place in this place. I passed one gentleman in particular who seemed to be disoriented. He was probably in his late forties, medium build, clean-shaven, and with short salt-and-pepper hair. He caught my eye because he was wearing a black t-shirt with the word UNITY spelled out across his chest in white. I made passing eye-contact and walked on. Making various corrections in my course, I was bound for the lavatory at which point I noticed that this fellow was walking just behind me. Still perplexed as to my route, I stopped for a moment to get my bearings – and the man stopped as well, then awkwardly passed in front of me. I continued and so did he, all-the-while watching me over his shoulder. He was following me! I stopped again and changed direction, and so did he. He seemed troubled, like he wanted to talk to me, but I did not find myself in the mood for conversation. I made various twists and turns through a maze of gambling machines until I evaded my stalker at last. He did not fit the profile of a pan-handler. I will never know what he wanted from me.
I returned to The Flamingo, where the concierge was holding my luggage until the rest of my party arrived. It would be a few hours, so I sat down at a Blackjack table to rest my legs and to calm my nerves.
To Be Continued….